


every cell in our bodies is a solar system

by apollothyme



Series: a tractor beam of sarcasm and kindness [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Academy Era, Face-Fucking, First Dates, First Kiss, First Time, Get Together, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, M/M, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Starfleet Academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-18 05:49:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12382167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollothyme/pseuds/apollothyme
Summary: They meet at the academy.At the thrilling age of twenty-three and twenty-seven, there is still a modicum of naivety to them.They know space, but they didn’t know it the way they would once they stepped foot into their first unknown-bound ship. Back then, they were both images of potential, brilliant in their own right and still inexperienced enough that Starfleet could try to mold them with their all-controlling fingers, which was why they were matched to work together by their superiors.“You know what beats putting one of Starfleet’s best minds to work on a project? Putting two,” Admiral Nogura says, and so, on a rainy San Francisco afternoon, Paul and Hugh meet at the research lab in the South Institute.





	1. i’m pretty sure, yeah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few months ago i swore i was never going to write fanfiction again and then discovery came out and my need to express how much paul/hugh speaks to me overruled all of my previous decisions.  
>    
> anyway, this is just a lil fic about paul and hugh maybe met. also, there's a surprising amount of self-loathing because Wow, Feelings Are A Thing, but i think it all works out in the end. also, big thanks to [dani](www.twitter.com/boldlygaying) for the beta read!

They meet at the academy.

At the thrilling age of twenty-three and twenty-seven, there was still a modicum of naivety to them.

They knew space, but they didn’t know it the way they would once they set foot in their first unknown-bound ship. Back then, they were both images of potential, brilliant in their own right and still inexperienced enough that Starfleet could try to mold them with their all-controlling fingers, which was why they were matched to work together by their superiors.

“You know what beats putting one of Starfleet’s best minds to work on a project? Putting two,” Admiral Nogura says, and so, on a rainy San Francisco afternoon, Paul and Hugh meet at the research lab in the South Institute.

Said meeting starts out horribly, with Hugh being late and Paul in a “testy bitch ass mood”, as his old roommate would put it.

“Medical trials,” Hugh explains, except that back then he was only Cadet Culber. Paul couldn’t stop himself from snorting in derision. He had been waiting, in the rain (well, in the foyer, next to the rain) for the past hour.

“It’s fine, let’s just do this,” he says.

Paul is brilliant. He really is. All of his teachers, superior officers, family and acquaintances agree.

They also agree that he’s so bad at working in a team it’s a wonder he hasn’t become a hermit yet.

Most people wouldn’t put it quite like that, but years of people never quite knowing what to say to him have taught Paul how to read between the lines. Plus, he’s not an idiot, he knows what his temper is like. If anything, his only wonder is why Starfleet still insists on pairing him up with others instead of giving him a small team of sentient mushrooms to control and let him have his way in peace.

Cadet Culber frowns, the downturn of his lips getting caught in the mirrored reflection of the lab doors. He follows Paul in silence, so that the only sound resonating through the walls is the wet squelch of their Starfleet issued boots on the pristine white floor.

The two hours that follow are excruciating, but then again, that’s how Paul classifies all group projects he’s obligated to participate in.

However, if forced to compare this particular work session with others, Paul would have to admit that it was one of the less painful ones, possibly even ranking at the top.

Hugh is smart, and that is not an adjective Paul throws around carelessly. He’s attentive, absorbing whatever new bout of information Paul throws at him like an andorian sponge. He knows what he’s doing, his level of knowledge on Phyrrian brain activity vastly beating Paul’s, who had only recently started studying the creatures in hopes of using the information for one of his other projects.

Overall, Hugh is a good lab partner. Not an idiot, thoughtful and yet still quick with his answers.

He’s not bad on the eyes either. Not that that matters, of course, but Paul would rather spend long hours working with someone physically pleasing than with a smelly Klingon.

His main fault, it seems, is that he tries to make small-talk.

Such are the gripes of working with most humanoid species.

As Hugh attempts to ask Paul why he’s interested in Phyrrian’s in the first place, Paul distantly wonders if there are any Vulcans around he can work with. 

 

* * *

 

He never asks Admiral Nogura about the Vulcans.

Instead, when probed on how his new project is doing, Paul replies, “Adequately.”

“And work with Doctor Culber?”

Paul hesitates, inclines his head in thought before he catches himself making the gesture.

In the end, he repeats himself. “Adequately as well.”

Admiral Nogura smiles and tells him he’s pleased to see him make good progress.

 

* * *

 

Cadet Culber is apparently Doctor Culber, which Paul should have extrapolated from the moment he met the man, but which he didn’t since he hadn’t spared many thoughts on who he was working with, instead busying himself with lamenting Starfleet’s love of group projects.

Doctor Culber already has a medical degree with a focus on humanoid _and_ non-humanoid lifeforms under his belt, which Paul has to admit is an impressive feat considering just how vast the subject matter was. He was interested in furthering his studies on micro lifeforms and how they could potentially aid current medical research, which was why his superior officers thought that spending long, winding hours with Paul Stamets was a good idea.

Of course, it made sense that the largest intergalactic group in existence would find some value in bundling their resources together in hopes of achieving something greater than the sum of all parts. Rationally, Paul knows that he’s the one at fault for being so antisocial.

He knows that he’s the weirdo with the big brain and snarky mouth who can’t function properly in a team. He’s the odd-one-out. He has always been, and he’s been hyper-aware of it ever since he was a child and his family started whispering behind his back and the neighboring kids stopped inviting him to play with them.

He knows that he’s the one at fault when Hugh Culber asks if he watches any sports and all he can reply is “no, I’m too busy”, but still.

Sometimes it’s nice to pretend otherwise.

 

* * *

 

Over the next work sessions, Doctor Culber continues to try to talk to Paul about things that are not explicitly Phyrrian related.

Paul tries not to be irked by this, remembering his old psychiatrist’s advice on how trying couldn’t harm him.

Nonetheless, it’s difficult for him to rein in his temper, and he fails to do so more than once.

Their research on the Phyrrian’s brain activity is more complicated than Paul initially predicted, opening more doors than it closes, and once a week lab work has turned into an almost every day occasion. He and Doctor Culber have started spending a lot of time together, and Paul has yet to form an opinion on whether that’s a good thing or a bad one.

On the one hand, he enjoys working to Doctor Culber. Even he, as reclusive as a Starfleet officer can be, can’t deny that.

On the other, his love of scientific rigor and years of bad social experiences have left him with disdain for the mere thought of distraction, and it’s hard for him to balance his own inadequacies.

 

* * *

 

They argue. Once, twice, probably a dozen times.

“Why did you join Starfleet if you hate working with other people so much? I’m sure some corporation out there would be happy to have you work as a freelancer for them.” Hugh once says.

It’s late, although Paul wouldn’t be able to tell the time if asked. They’re pulling another all-nighter, trying to get this project done and dealt with so they can move on, and they’re both rather snappy with each other.

“I don’t hate working with other people,” he replies, which is not a whole lie.

A month ago he was assigned to another group project by Admiral Nogura, (“Seeing as your work with Doctor Culber is going so well,” he had told him). Cadet Straal is not Vulcan, but he seems to be a little frightened of Paul, so he doesn’t talk much, and he has an affinity for mushrooms that rivals his, which means they got along a lot better than Paul did with most people.

Better than he does with Doctor Culber, who seems to be permanently cross between wanting to get to know Paul better and wanting to shove him out the window.

It’s a feeling he can relate to well.

“Alright, maybe not hate. Severely despise, then. Why Starfleet?” he asks again.

And that — that is an answer Paul cannot give, not in few words anyway, and not so readily to someone like Culber, who has started to share more and more of himself even as Paul remains withdrawn.

Culber had grown up in a small miner’s colony in the Dorala system. His mom had been the town doctor in a place where people barely had enough money to put food on the table, much less pay their bills in time. A lot of the time his mom worked pro-bono while his father struggled at the mine. Culber grew up watching his family be the best they could be for others and decided he wanted to do something similar, but bigger.

Then the stars had called for him, like they call for so many people, and he joined in that long hope of leaving behind memories and achievements bigger than your child imaginations could ever conjure.

Paul’s tongue is heavy in his mouth. For a moment, he contemplates sharing his own story, opening up for once. The work hours keep stretching in front of them and even he has to admit the idea of shutting off work for a few minutes is appealing.

Plus, it would be nice, he thinks. He knows Culber would listen to his every word, that the man is ten times the social creature he is, and that he’d appreciate whatever tidbit of himself Paul could share.

And yet, his tongue doesn’t move. No words come out.

It’s not the right place nor the right time and, furthermore, he’s not yet the right person.

“Because Starfleet offers the best scientific resources in the galaxy,” he says instead.

It discomforts him to know he’s not the only person in the room who knows he’s lying.

 

* * *

 

Years later he’ll say it. He’ll explain in detail, use all the words that feel right and all the ones that don’t.

He’ll tell Hugh how he grew up surrounded by people and yet so terribly alone. He’ll tell him about the vacations to other planets, how his parents used to ship him off on his own when they couldn’t deal with him anymore. Paul spent days on spaceships by himself, watching the stars, cataloging every new thing he saw. He is as much of an innate space explorer as a captain’s son can be.

And then there were all the promises Starfleet made.

Resources. Training. Equipment. Colleagues. Friends.

Paul, for all the walls he likes to build, is only human when he lays his head in bed at night.

He wanted things other people did and he tried to reach for them in his own awkward way, stumbling far more often than he succeeded.

“Well, you succeeded with me,” Hugh says, smiling at him in a way that’s small and private, as if he’s not quite sure if he’s allowed to speak yet or if Paul still has more to share.

“That was entirely thanks to you, though.”

Hugh shakes his head, slipping closer to him in their shared bed. “It was a group effort,” he says, grinning before he kisses Paul, soft and slow, like they’ve got all the time in the galaxy.

Instead, there are Klingons following their every move and most days Paul wonders how the both of them are still alive, at the same time, in the same space, breathing the same air in these small, beloved moments.

 

* * *

 

It takes them four caffeine overflowing months to finish their project on the Phyrrians.

As soon as they hand in their final report, Culber turns to him and says, “Let me buy you dinner.”

Paul trips. As in, he literally trips over his own feet and almost falls face flat on the floor if not for Culber catching him at just the right moment.

“Steady,” Culber says, his hands on Paul’s arms, warm and solid, just like him.

“Dinner? With me?” he asks. He’s not confused, he’s far too smart to be confused, but he is a little… dumbfounded.

“That’s what I asked,” Culber replies. Hugh, actually, Paul’s brain informs him with delay. He prefers to be called Hugh.

“Are you sure?” Paul asks, looking around as if to make sure Hugh has got the right person and hasn’t confused him with anyone else.

“I’m pretty sure, yeah,” Hughs says, laughing for a moment before his eyes loom over Paul’s body.

Paul, curse his albino physiology, can feel a blush start to spread across his cheeks even as he tells himself he’s being completely ridiculous.

“Okay,” he answers.

“Great! I’ll pick you up at eight,” Hugh replies, letting his hand travel down Paul’s arm until he can squeeze his hand.

As he’s about to turn and leave, Paul asks. “Should I— Should I wear something nice?”

Hugh’s eyes travel up and down his body once more. “Anything is fine,” he says and then he leaves and Paul is still left feeling as bereft as he was before.

 

* * *

 

They go out for dinner and without the distraction of work and the Phyrrians, Paul finds that he has no excuse not to talk more freely than he has in… Well, let’s just call it a long time and leave it at that.

Outside of work, Hugh proves to be everything Paul already knew he was. Attractive, intelligent and with a good sense of humor, capable of sparking a few laughs out the both of them.

Paul is still not quite sure what they’re doing together. All of his previous encounters with men had been purely physical, but this is clearly meant to be a romantic date. There’s a piano playing in the background, their waiter called them an “adorable couple” when she walked them inside and there are candles on the table, for Elon’s sake.

It’s hard to pinpoint why someone like Hugh, talented and social and certainly capable of dating most of the galaxy, would wanna date someone like Paul, but Paul won’t let that thought fester for long.

He may be many things, but a martyr isn’t one of them, and if Hugh sees something in him past irritable work colleague, then the very least he can do is _try_.

He enjoys himself, of that there is no doubt, and he agrees to a second date before he even knows he’s doing it. He says something about him paying the next time, but the wine fizzing in his blood makes it hard to figure out if those are actual words he professed out loud or just wishful thinking.

One thing he knows for sure is that he agrees to being walked home, which is ludicrous considering he’s a grown-man with enough Starfleet training to handle himself, but Hugh insists, and Paul doesn’t have it in him to say no.

He, at least, has the upper hand of being the one to lean in first and kiss Hugh goodnight.

When he leans back Hugh is grinning at him from ear to ear. Paul finds himself grinning back as he’s pulled in for another kiss.

 

* * *

 

They meet at the academy and then they travel far, far beyond that, listening to the call of stars and the pull of the unknown.


	2. on my face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the title of this fic pretty much says it all

After Hugh walks him to his place, they spend ten delightful minutes making out in front of the door where anyone can see them. Paul knows that last thought shouldn't turn him on as much as it does, but his heart — and his cock — have different plans.

It doesn't help in the slightest that Hugh seems as reluctant to leave as he does. His knee is between Paul's legs, pushing up every so often in a way that's anything but accidental. Paul has to use every last bit of his mental strength to keep himself from moaning, although he can't resist pulling Hugh closer, gripping his waist so hard his fingers whiten.

In return, Hugh leaves a trail of kisses down Paul's jaw before he bites him on the neck, quick and sharp, and fuck if that doesn't make Paul keen.

"We should stop," he says. "Probably."

Hugh kisses the spot he’s just bitten and Paul has to push him real soon if he wants to get home without a mark, which is another thought his brain and body aren't cooperating on.

"Probably," Hugh agrees. they spend a few seconds staring at one another before Hugh shakes his head. "Yeah, no, I should definitely go. It's getting late and you have early classes tomorrow."

Paul doesn't question how Hugh knows his schedule, although he feels like maybe he should.

They kiss once more before wishing each other good night, keeping it chaste this time lest things derail again.

Paul only looks back once after he enters his building, admiring how well Hugh's ass fills his jeans as his date walks away.

When he gets to his apartment, the first thing he does is replicate himself a cup of tea.

He then takes a single sip of the leafy drink, spits it out and determines that _no_ , calming drinks were not made for people like him. He drains the cup before he dumps it in sink, abandoning it there in preference of following through with his initial plan for when he got home: jerk off while thinking of Hugh spread out in front of him, biting his bottom lip as he reaches for him, legs wide open, just begging to be f—

A beep from his communicator derails his train of thought, forcing him to take his hand out of his pants as he cursed the existence of all technology in the known universe. If this is Straal bothering him with some stupid question about their research project Paul is going to brutally murder someone. 

> Hey, Paul. I really enjoyed myself tonight and I'm hoping to see you again soon. Let me know when you have time xx

Paul's eyes fly over the words, reading them once, twice and thrice before they linger on the little _x_ 's at the end. His brain briefly entertains the notion of calling Hugh and finishing what his hand started while Hugh talks to him about anything, fuck, the sound of his voice alone could push Paul off the edge right now.

And that would be— good. That would be real good. But they've only been on one date so far and Paul already feels like enough of a creep for the way he can't stop himself from reaching for his cock again, typing in his comm with his free hand.

> I have to work late tomorrow, but we could grab drinks? I know a place that's open all night and sells amazing caipirinhas. They also do good quesadillas.

He has to wait a few seconds before he gets a reply. He spends most of those gripping his base, trying to hold back until he gets to see Hugh's name pop up again, with a profile picture accompanying the message. Hugh looks younger there, it's probably the picture he gave when he first entered Starfleet and one he never bothered to change like most of them. It's still distinctly him, though, with his big almond eyes and those lips.

Paul gives up on trying to wait and starts jerking off again flicking his wrist near the tip until it hurts.

Hugh's answering message pops up on the screen right as he's about to come.

> Perfect. Text me the address when you can. And have a good night ;)

The fact that Hugh uses emojis in his texts is disgusting, an abomination, and Paul will have to say something to him later about this, but right now that stupid winky face just about demolishes him, making Paul wonder if Hugh knows. What if he's walking home right now, aware that Paul is jerking off in his bed while thinking of him, staring at his face on the screen while he moves his hand inside his pants, not bothering to hold back any little noise when he's alone, able to moan out loud if he so pleases, the sound of Hugh's name on the tip of his tongue as he comes.

Paul sends back a quick reply before he hops in the shower, thinking that at least he can give some Hugh some emoji food for thought.

> I did, thank you :)

They go to Paul's caipirinhas and quesadillas place on their second date, meeting up a little after ten when Paul thinks fuck it, Straal can wring the Illyrrium's mushrooms DNA by himself. It will only take him four hours, three if he forgoes food and all distractions, which he won't since he eats every two hours, the weirdo.

"This is going to take me all night," Straal complains.

Paul shrugs. "I'll make it up to you. Maybe."

"Maybe?"

Paul is out the door before he can answer.

He knows his behavior is quite odd for someone like him. If you asked any of his acquaintances, all of them would pick Paul to be the last person to ditch work for a date, and while Paul would usually be right on board with them, he can't help but be excited for this new dynamic in his life.

He’s tried dating other people before, going on blind dates and scrolling through far too many unappealing FindMatchLove profiles. None of them interested him, though. He found all the people he met to be rather boring and he knew the feeling must have been mutual from the faces they made while he talked about his work. Few people understood, much less cared for Paul's research.

A few of them still tried to take him home afterwards, and while Paul didn’t always say _no_ , he could tell that even that was different with Hugh, who actually got why Paul was so invested in astromycology.

And then there were all of Hugh’s other qualities.

He was also kind, generous with his time and efforts, as well as funny and more than a little stubborn. Most people probably wouldn't pick that last trait as a positive quality, but as a rather stubborn man himself, Paul preferred spending time people who could stand their ground with ease and push him back when he got too full of himself.

Adding to that, there was also the fact that Hugh was arguably one of the best looking men he had ever laid eyes on. Paul wondered if Hugh had ever done any modeling work. Maybe? He could definitely see it happening, for some extra cash or maybe just to have something to do, Hugh posing with his shirt off, heavy eyes on the camera, a hand reaching for his d—

A hand pulling him to the side and stopping him right in his tracks to drag him away from his thoughts.

Paul was about to ask what the fuck they thought they were doing when he saw the face he had been daydreaming about just a few seconds before.

"Hugh! Hi! Oh, I’m sorry if I made you wait. My lab partner was being rather useless and I couldn't slip out earlier, sorry, I—"

"Paul, babe," Hugh cuts him off, laying a hand on Paul's chest like he's trying to slow down his breathing. "It's fine. I was the one who got here earlier than I should have. Also, don’t call Straal useless. He’s not all that bad.”

Paul took a moment to catch his breath, letting out all the air in his lungs through his nose. “You haven’t seen him with the DNA wringer yet. Takes him years to simply set up the machine.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re the genius.”

“That’s not true. You’re definitely on my level.”

One of Hugh’s eyebrows climbs up towards his hairline. “Really?” he asks, a grin stretching across his face.

Paul’s cheeks start to heat up as if on the clock. “Well, I mean, yes. I wouldn’t have worked with you otherwise.”

“Why, thank you, Cadet Stamets,” Hugh says, giving Paul’s arm a squeeze before he leans in further to add. “I mean it, that really does mean a lot coming from you.”

Paul resists the urge to shake Hugh off, wanting to dispel the moment while at the same time wanting to keep Hugh’s hands on him forever. “I’m just stating a clear fact. But anyway, it’s rather cold here. Do you want to go inside?”

Hugh takes a step back and Paul instantly resents the lack of contact.

“Lead the way,” he says.

They pick a table near the back where the other patrons can’t see them and they have a clear view of the streets below them. San Francisco is beautiful at night with its timeless mix of old-fashioned and contemporary. The bar they’re in is near the ocean, close enough that you can hear it if you stay out long enough, the sound of waves slipping through the slits of every open window.

The ambience in the bar is quiet, casual. They both order the onion and mushroom quesadillas at Paul’s recommendation. A good decision, given that it makes Hugh flash him a huge smile after he takes the first bite.

“These are almost as good as my mother’s, and that is not a compliment I give out easily.”

“Well, I’m happy to hear that,” Paul says, feeling only a bit silly that he’s proud of something he didn’t actually make.

Accompanying the food there are caipirinhas, a drink slipping into two and three as the night progresses. They’re rather heavy drinks, Paul’s pretty sure there’s nothing in them but alcohol, sugar, limes, and ice. The sugar seems to lessen the taste of the alcohol though, allowing the whole combo to slip into their bloodstream almost unnoticed.

Throughout the night, they talk about their work, Paul shares at least one fact about his past and Hugh plays footsie with him under the table. It’s quite possibly the best evening Paul has ever had.

They leave rather late, after the vast majority of places have closed and there are only a few people mingling in the streets. This time, Paul is the one who insists on paying and walking Hugh home.

“You did it last time!”

“I’m okay with you paying, but you live closer.”

“So?”

“So it would be easier if I walked you home, Mr. Stamets.”

“That’s irrelevant,” Paul says, marching off in a random direction.

A few seconds later there is a hand on his arm and another around his neck. “That’s not where I live,” Hugh says before he pulls Paul in for a dizzying kiss, and that’s not just the alcohol speaking. Hugh is a rather great kisser, knowing just when to press and when to pull back.

“You should stop that,” Paul says once they pause for breath.

“Should I?” Hugh asks. His voice is set a few bars lower than usual, coming out a little hoarse like Hugh’s running out of air and going straight to Paul’s dick.

“We’re in the middle of the street and you just told me you live far away. It seems like a good idea if we put some space between us,” Paul said while making no effort whatsoever to do so.

“Or, we could just take a cab. Then we’d be at my place in five minutes. Less if we told the driver to hurry.”

“That sounds like a better idea,” Paul says before he drags Hugh in for another kiss.

In the cab, Paul makes sure there’s a seat between them because he’s pretty sure he would try to pull Hugh in again if they were to sit side by side. The ride, at least, is as quick as Hugh promised him, and Paul leaves a handsome tip as they leave.

“You know, normally I don’t invite guys up after the second date,” Hugh says when they reach their doorstep. He pauses, forcing Paul to pause alongside him.

“Oh?” Paul asks. A spark of anxiety flutters through his brain at Hugh’s words. Has he misread the situation? Is he coming off too strong? He can back off, if that’s what Hugh wants. He can be less. He can try.

“But I know where you live, so I can show up at your doorstep to kick your ass if you don’t stick around in the morning for breakfast.”

“Hugh, I would never,” Paul promises.

He really wouldn’t. Couldn’t. That’s not him. That’s not _them_.

Hugh stares into his eyes like he’s reading Paul. His expression relaxes into a soft smile in just a few seconds, an excruciating timeframe for Paul.

“Yeah, I know. I just wanted to make sure anyway.”

There’s something in Hugh’s voice that sounds almost fragile. Suddenly, Paul feels more powerful than he has all evening, reassured that he’s not the only one to whom this is completely new.

“I can’t cook, though, I feel like I should warn you about that now.”

“Oh, that was pretty much a given from the first moment I met you,” Hugh laughs.

He gives Paul a chaste kiss on the lips before pulling away and entering his door code. The ride to the turbolift is short, but somehow it’s still too long for Paul, who pushes Hugh against the nearest wall to shove his tongue down the other man’s throat.

If any of their previous kisses could be considered heavy, then this one is downright filthy. Paul just can’t be bothered to wait any longer and if the way Hugh is holding on to waist is any indication, the feeling is rather mutual.

From there they manage to stumble their way into the turbolift while glued to one another, a mighty feat, if Paul says so himself.

They’re worse once they get into their turbolift, Hugh immediately shoving one of his legs between Paul’s and pushing up, making Paul moan into his mouth.

“ _Hugh_ ,” he lets out, the sound slipping past his lips entirely of its volition. He sounds so fucking wrecked already it’s almost embarrassing.

It’s a blessing from the universe when Hugh demonstrates that he still has more brain-presence than Paul and reaches for the control panel next to them to hit the emergency stop button.

“Good call,” Paul whispers.

“I have my moments,” Hugh replies, biting down on his bottom lip as he gives Paul a thorough once over. His grip on Paul’s neck is borderline painful.

Paul leans into him, kissing him again.

“I didn’t think you’d be like this,” Hugh admits between breaths. He sounds almost abashed by his own words.

“Like what?” Paul asks, watching Hugh lick his lips before he answers.

“Wanting and open to showing it.”

Paul considers Hugh’s statement, tilting his head to the side as he thinks. “I confess, I’m usually not so… eager.”

“It’s not bad, though. Far from it.”

And it’s the way Hugh says those words, with a mix of awe and need layering his every syllable, that makes Paul think:

_Fuck it._

He gets down on his knees in one fluid motion, not giving himself any time to think before he reaches for the zipper on Hugh’s pants and starts pulling it down.

“Oh my god, are you really— fuck. Fuck. _Paul_ ,” Hugh says, his words melting into a low moan when Paul leans in to nuzzle his cock through the fabric of his boxers.

A part of Paul is desperate to drag this out for as long as he can. To have Hugh moaning his name out loud in a fucking turbolift while Paul sucks his dick into the sixth dimension. He wants Hugh to hold Hugh’s hips down and make this last as long as he can, drag them both to the edge just to pull back at the very last moment.

And yet, another part of him thinks that he’s already on his knees, he can play the waiting game later.

He pulls Hugh’s pants down alongside his boxers, his eyes focused on Hugh and how his expressions shift in response to Paul’s every move.

He leans in without hesitation, feeling confident even though he knows he’s likely the least experienced of the two by a good margin. Still, from the way Hugh keeps opening and closing his hands, like he has no clue what to do with himself, Paul figures he has to be doing something right.

“You can hold my hair,” he says when pulling back, licking the side of Hugh’s dick before he adds. “If you’d like.”

“Like this?” Hugh asks, gripping Paul’s hair with one hand with the other grips Paul’s jaw. There’s nothing forceful in his grip. Paul can still feel move freely if he wants to, but it only takes one good look for Hugh to guess his opinion on that. “Or like this?” Hugh adds, tightening his grip on Paul’s hair without warning and making Paul groan around his dick.

“Like that’s good,” Paul manages to say, and if he sounded wrecked before he doesn’t even wanna think about how he must sound—and look—now, with spit and precum trailing down his chin and his cheeks stinging with a blush that must be trailing all the way down his chest.

“You look so fucking stunning like this. You _are_ so fucking stunning. Jesus, Paul, your mouth. You’re so good, babe,” Hugh continues to babble as he pushes Paul’s head until it’s right against his crotch and then pulls back.

Paul hadn’t actually wondered yet whether or not Hugh was a talker, but he’s neither surprised nor displeased to find Hugh loves to fill every inch of silence with his voice. The whole thing is almost intoxicating, aided by the grip Hugh has on him, which he tightens every so often without warning, making Paul keen every time.

“You can touch yourself if you want to,” Hugh tells him. “But you can also wait until you finish and then I’ll suck you off right here, with you spread on the floor for me.”

And Paul, who was about to slip a hand into his own pants, stops just in time through sheer force of will alone.

If he can manage Starfleet group projects, he can manage this.

It’s difficult, though, when every single one of his nerve-endings seems to be on fire, hedonic thoughts and images racing through his mind as the almost sweet sting of pain reverberates through his body.

Paul can tell Hugh is about to come by the way his grip seems to tighten even further, getting so painful now it brings tears to Paul’s eyes. Paul fucking loves it, but there’s something more he wants.

Hugh loosens his grip the second he notices Paul pulling him back, his eyebrows reaching together in confusion.

“Can you— I want you to—” Paul struggles with the words, finding himself suddenly embarrassed by his request, which is ridiculous considering all he’s done so far, but _still_.

“What is it, babe? What do you want?” Hugh asks, staring down at Paul with something akin to reverence in his eyes. One of his thumbs strokes Paul’s jaw, slipping near his mouth and wiping it clean. His other hand tightens its grip on Paul’s hair without warning once more, making Paul shiver all over.

“Come on me. I want you to come—” Paul looks up, making sure to hold eye contact “—on my face. Please.”

“ _Ai mi amor, vas a ser mi muerte_ ,” Hugh says just as he starts jerking off. It only takes a few strokes before he’s coming. Paul closes his eyes, feeling the come hit him in the face as well as his hair. Some probably gets on his clothes as well. Hugh will have to lend him his replicator or something of his for him to wear.

Afterwards, Paul licks his lips in a way that’s nothing short of pornographic, opening his eyes to find Hugh staring at him like he’s the seventh wonder of the universe.

“ _Mi muerte_ ,” he repeats. Paul makes a mental note to learn spanish.

He only has a moment to breathe before Hugh is pushing him back on the turbolift’s door like he promises and pulling his pants down, boxers flying alongside them.

Paul is not embarrassed to confess that, in the state he’s in, he doesn’t last long. He’s pretty sure it would require superhuman stamina for anyone to last more than a wretched minute with Hugh Culber between their legs, sucking their dick like he’s going to die if he doesn’t make them come as soon as possible.

Paul’s head hits the floor with a mighty, powerful thunk once he gives up staring at Hugh and comes inside his mouth.

It takes them both a while to recover their regular speech abilities.

“We should leave this turbolift at some point, I think. You probably have neighbors,” Paul says.

“I do,” Hugh agrees.

Neither of them moves.

Truth be told, Paul’s pretty sure he could pass out then and there if he were to close his eyes, which he’s quite inclined to do in his current state.

“No, no, come on. Let’s go,” Hugh says, pulling up his pants at the same time as he gets off his knees. “I promised you breakfast.”

“You did,” Paul says, smiling at the memory. He blames how loopy he feels on the alcohol, which he’s certain must still be circulating his bloodstream.

“Up.” Hugh lends Paul a hand to force him off the floor. “You look…” he starts to say, trailing off when he can’t find the right word.

“Debauched?”

“I was going to go with well fucked, but debauched is also good.” Hugh gives him a quick peck on the lips. “Come on, _cariño_ , let’s go before anyone calls security on us. I’ll make you a mushroom omelet in the morning.”

Paul rolls his eyes. “I eat other things, you know?”

“I’ll add cheese.”

Paul attempts to roll his eyes harder, if that’s humanly possible, which it likely isn’t.

“Anything you make me is good as long as it comes with coffee.”

“An easy man to please, I’ll figure something out for you,” Hugh says, smiling at him with so much softness in his eyes that Paul has to look away, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed by everything that has transpired between them in the past forty-eight hours.

It’s the good type of embarrassed, though. Really. The perfect type, actually.

 

 

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feel free to come shout at me on [tumblr.](https://paulculberr.tumblr.com/post/167319881823/paulculberr-the-title-of-this-fic-should-say-it)


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